


Damages

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Badass, Character Study, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot's never really known when to just lie down and die</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damages

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://leverageland.livejournal.com/profile)[**leverageland**](http://leverageland.livejournal.com/) “TV Tropin’” challenge. My trope was “[determinator](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Determinator).”
> 
> Events are from "The Carnival Job"

It takes everything he has, every ounce of strength and will, to push himself off the pavement and climb shakily to his feet. An unseen sledgehammer is driving spikes of pain through his skull, his whole body aches, and he can taste blood in his mouth. His ears are ringing and his vision won’t clear. It takes his confused and sluggish mind long moments to put the scattered pieces of hazy memories back together, and all the while Hardison’s voice is stabbing into his ear, driving still more pain into his head. But through the waves of pain battering at him, despite the slowness of his mind and the reluctance of his body, instinct is surfacing, pushing through and pushing _him,_ setting off alarms and forcing him to move, gripping him with an urgency stronger even than the pain.

_Molly._

Rage blossoms in him and he welcomes its burn, lets it command him. Another innocent caught in the crossfire, a pawn in a game she doesn’t understand. _Collateral damage._ He’s seen it so many times, _too_ many times, been a player himself in the brutal game, knows too well all the ugly ways it can end.

But not this time. No more pawns lost or sacrificed. No more innocent blood on his hands.

_I’m comin’ for you, Molly. Me._

And it’s going to take more than the weakness of his own battered body to stop him.

He hears and even vaguely understands Hardison’s voice and lets it direct him. _Storage shed._ He somehow finds the strength to run and bursts in–

Only to reel in confusion when he finds it empty. She’s not here, she’s gone, and panic sets in. He doesn’t know what’s happening, can’t make the pieces fit, and he can’t help her if he can’t fucking _think_. The pain is pounding, stabbing, and all he wants to do is clutch at his head and sink to the floor, to slip into darkness where the pain can’t reach him–

Instead he calls out to Nate for help, for direction. Something else that by now is instinct. Nate’s has become the hand that steadies or pushes him, that holds or releases him. All he’s ever been in his life is a weapon, and Nate’s is now the finger on his trigger. Sometimes he hates that he’s given up so much control to one man, especially a man with so many control issues, but just now, when he can barely put two thoughts together, when it’s all he can do keep moving, he needs it, needs Nate to take over, to point and squeeze.

Because Molly’s waiting. He promised her, and he’s done with breaking promises. Done with washing innocent blood off his hands and carrying _collateral damage_ on his soul.

But Nate’s busy, trying to negotiate with Daria, to buy time until he can figure out _where_ to point Eliot–

And it’s Molly’s voice that calms the panic. She’s alive, she’s holding on, and she’s waiting for _him_. He seizes on the chance, knowing he – she – can’t afford to wait for Nate. These are Russians. He knows Russians, can personally attest to their skill and brutality, and the thought of Molly being in their hands scares him more than he can say.

_I don’t like what I see._

It takes him a few moments to puzzle through the clue, his mind thick and sluggish, but when he does, his rage deepens. She doesn’t like mirrors, and they’ve got her in a room full of them, locked in her own worst nightmare. He knows a thing or two about that, knows the terrors the mind can inflict, knows some hurts are worse than the physical ones.

The bastards have hurt Molly.

He can hear Nate in his ear urging him to wait, to let whatever plan they’ve got play out, but he’s past waiting, and he’s got a plan of his own. Get Molly out, whatever it takes. It lacks the elegance and complexity of one of Nate’s plans, but then he’s never been a particularly elegant man.

And his head hurts too fucking much for complexity.

But he’s at far less than his best, and walking into that house of mirrors only emphasizes how badly his brain is scrambled. The concussion is screwing with his perception, and he can’t make sense of what his eyes see, can’t distinguish reality from reflection. He sees Roper – many Ropers, holding many Mollies – and tries to decide which one to go for first–

And is completely unprepared for the attack from one of Daria’s other thugs. He goes down beneath the blow, gets up and slams a fist into the bastard’s face–

Only to feel glass tearing into his flesh as the mirror shatters. He’s lost, confused, the world starting to spin around him. He can hear Molly calling to him – or thinks he can; he’s no longer sure about anything – but before his dazed brain can register anything else the bastard’s on him again, delivering a vicious headbutt to his face and driving him once more to the floor. He struggles to his feet, but is moving only by instinct now. His eyes refuse to focus, he has no sense of direction, and the mirrors are playing hell with his mind. Molly’s voice is floating _somewhere_ , but he can barely understand her. Still, it’s enough to know she’s here, waiting for him.

Just now, that knowledge is all that’s holding him up.

He staggers on, certain another attack will come and not at all certain he can defend himself against it. He hurts – Jesus, he hurts – and he can no longer trust anything his eyes see. Light and shadow are playing hell with him, dancing off mirrors and swirling around him in dizzying waves, piercing into his skull like knives. He’s always depended as much on his senses as on his muscles in a fight, but now both are betraying him. He can hear Molly begging for help, but he’s not even certain _that’s_ real, isn’t certain of _anything_ any more.

Except that he’s not leaving here without her.

He clings to that certainty as Roper – an army of Ropers – appears again in the mirrors before him. Before he can even begin to figure out which one is real Roper strikes, fast and hard, the blows coming with a savage force. He can’t think clearly enough to anticipate them, can’t move fast enough to block them. His mind and body are working against him, and with each new blow fresh pain erupts in him. He goes down, struggles up, goes down again, and knows in some part of him, has always known, he has limits, and this might be the day he reaches them.

Every hitter eventually meets his match, someone younger, faster, stronger, and Roper is all of those. The bastard’s also stone cold, as close to a soulless killing machine as he’s ever known. He takes his opponents apart without a flicker of remorse or mercy, won’t stop until his victim lies beaten and broken at his feet.

But he’s never liked being _anyone’s_ victim, and, while he’s as broken right now as he’s been in a long damned time, he’s always been too stubborn a motherfucker to know when he’s beaten.

He climbs to his feet again.

But he’s slow, unsteady, clumsy, his mind conscious only of pain, his eyes refusing to work. Every muscle in his body is screaming in agony, and he’s fairly certain something in his shoulder is torn. He can’t lift his arm to launch a punch, and so does the only thing he _can_ manage. He kicks out, hoping he can at least drive Roper back long enough to catch his breath–

But Roper’s ready, easily able to see everything he can’t. Roper grabs his ankle, immobilizing him, and spins into him, viciously wrenching his hip and knee and driving an elbow savagely into his ribs. His vision goes red and then whites out as he feels something – everything – in his chest give way, and he collapses to the floor in a heap, almost sick from the pain. He can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t see, can’t think through the agony burning in every part of his body. And there’s no way in hell he can possibly defend himself against whatever Roper decides to do next.

_The great Eliot Spencer._

He’s not sure if the mocking voice and laughter are really Roper’s, if he really hears them at all. But they piss him off enough that he manages to draw breath enough to start taking some control of his body, to fight through the pain enough to begin pushing himself up again, as unable as ever to quit. He’s not sure if it’s pride or just sheer stupidity, but he won’t – can’t – allow himself to die like this, cowering on the floor.

Roper’s gonna have to work a helluva lot harder than this to kill him.

Somehow he manages to climb to his knees – and, Jesus fucking God, it _hurts_! – but he still can’t see for shit. His brain and his eyes are badly out of sync, and all distance and depth perception are gone. Everything’s out of focus, distorted, unreal. And the fucking mirrors aren’t helping at all.

_I don’t like what I see._

Shit, neither does he. Doesn’t like what he sees, can’t _trust_ what he sees. He might as well be fighting blind. Which, at this point, might actually be a relief …

_I don’t like what I see._

He closes his eyes.

And somehow it helps. His eyes and brain are no longer at odds, making for one less distraction. He manages to find a level of breathing that, while still agonizing, at least isn’t threatening to make him pass out. Yet. Roper’s still out there, waiting, but right now his only concern is winning the battle for his own body.

Because he’s still Molly’s only hope.

He forces himself upright, resolutely ignoring the screaming pain that accompanies every movement. Calling upon a lifetime of experience and the stubborn, unbending will that right now are his only weapons, he swallows any outcry, tunes out the sound of his heartbeat and his breathing, ignores anything that’s not Roper. He knows he doesn’t have much strength left, knows he won’t be able to push his body much further, knows he can’t afford to waste a single moment or movement. He only has one or two shots left him, and he _has_ to make them count.

The balance of power has shifted.

He can sense it, can hear it, in the sudden hesitancy of Roper’s movements. The bastard’s got no idea what he’s doing, and it bothers him. It’s a small victory, but he’ll take it. No longer at the mercy of his fucked-up eyesight, he lets his other senses take over, lets instinct take over, and wills himself to _wait_.

It’s not a long wait, though, Roper too eager to take advantage of what he thought was a fatally wounded opponent. But Eliot feels it in the air as Roper moves and strikes, and he dodges the blow just in time. Roper presses the attack, crossing, cutting, turning, and soon he’s got a sense of the man’s rhythm and patterns and reach, is dodging and deflecting blows with a confidence he’s not felt since that goddamn ride slammed into him. He’s ducking, twisting, blocking, knows exactly where Roper is and where he’s going to be–

He opens his eyes. And he fucking _forces_ them to see only what he knows is real. It confuses the hell out of Roper, and pisses him off that his victim just refuses to _fucking die_ , and in that moment of anger he forecasts his intentions  like a neon sign. He lunges forward, launches himself into what _would_ be a leaping kick–

But Eliot slams a glass-torn fist into his gut with all the force he can manage. Roper doubles over like a marionette whose strings are cut and he drives his fist up into the bastard’s face, then grabs him and slings him head-first into a mirror with force enough to shatter not just the glass but the frame behind it. He tosses Roper to the floor and the bastard lies there, bleeding and unmoving, as glass rains down around them.

It should be over. He _needs_ it to be over. He’s done, his strength gone–

Until he hears Molly. Her cries are muffled … someone’s holding her … and his rage ratchets up a notch. He turns slowly, sees the terror in the girl’s face and the murderous intent in the eyes of the bastard who’s got her, and suddenly he’s got just strength enough. His rage explodes and he lets himself go, shooting forward and dropping the son of a bitch with a single punch.

Then Molly’s in _his_ arms, clinging tightly, desperately to him and sobbing like the little girl she really is. Her fierce grip drives bolts of agony through his battered body, but it doesn’t matter. She’s real, she’s here, she’s safe, she’s _alive_. He clutches her to him and twines a hand in her soft hair, resting his chin on the top of her head and just breathing in _her_ life.

He’s beaten all to hell, broken and torn and bleeding. But that’s all right, because for once, for blessed once, it’s only _his_ blood he’ll be washing off tonight.

Whatever damage his body has taken, he’ll walk out of here with none of it on his soul.

_The End_


End file.
